Search

Ah, me and my lofty ideas. I’m not doing nearly enough creative writing to keep this thing going, but I have plenty of other things I want to write about, so that’s what this is for. I’m going to write whatever the hell I feel like.

Anyways, that is all. I have to go attend a children’s carnival, and must now leave for it.

I’m trying out this whole Fiverr thing. I’m offering a few different gigs, and one of them is to write a worst case scenario of an upcoming situation you’re nervous about. I don’t know how well it will sell, but… I had a lot of fun writing this one, so I hope to get at least a few bites. Here’s my page, in any case. http://fiverr.com/kariawesome

The situation I chose for this example was that Johnny had applied to colleges, and was worried about being accepted into them.

“It’s a bright, clear day. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. You got to eat delicious cookies in your English class as part of a classmate’s presentation. Your favorite television program is starting back up tonight after being off the air for three long weeks. You feel like the world is your oyster. But, as you near your house, you notice that something isn’t right. You can’t put your finger on just what, though… With trepidation, you take the walkway to your front door. A strange, high-pitched, keening sound bores through the door and into your ears. Trembling, you turn the knob and push the door open. Your mother is slumped before you. Her face is slick with salty tears, her eyes are redder than her signature shade of lipstick, and she is emitting a tortured wail that can only be described as dinosaur-like. She is the source of the strange noise you heard through the door. Her features are crumpled into a tragic caricature of her normal beauty.

“Johnny…” she gasps, gesturing at the floor around her.

Only then can you tear your gaze away long enough to notice that she is surrounded by hundreds of envelopes, all of them opened. Some of them have been torn neatly down the crease, others have been ripped savagely into pieces, their contents spilled like blood onto the floor.

“Wh- what is this?” you stammer.

Your mother pauses dramatically for a moment, as if sucking the last bits of strength and courage she has left inside of her, and then bawls out, in a ghastly howl, “REJECTION LETTERS!”

You snatch up the nearest missive. Application rejected. You grab another. And another. And another. They are all the same. They are all rejections to your applications. You grab more envelopes. Surely they can’t all be application rejections. They aren’t. There are notices from colleges you didn’t apply to, as well. These are notices not to apply, ever, because they have reviewed your qualifications on Google, and want never to see your face in their halls, for fear of the shame you will bring down upon their fine institutions. Every college in America has denied you entrance.

You sink to your knees, the foul papers crumpled in your fists.

“Mother,” you beg, “Please… I’ll try again next year… I’ll work and save money and then-”

“It’s too late!” screams your mother. “Your future is ruined! Our family is ruined! The shame of your failure was too much for your poor father… his heart… it wasn’t strong enough… it just… gave out…” She points to the kitchen, where you see your father’s body. He is clutching at his chest, more of the rejection letters on the table before him. You gasp.

Your mother continues. “Your sister is gone. I sent her away, to your Aunt’s. If she is ever to have a future, she must begin a new life, with a new name. No one can know that she is associated with you. The tarnish on her reputation would last the entirety of her life, and she would never be able to accomplish her dreams, never be able to marry…” Your mother collapses into a fresh fit of sobs. “And now you must leave me, too. I can’t bear to look at your face, you boy who took my life and family away from me.”

And so, you leave. You throw a few things into a duffel bag, and hop on a bus to nowhere, to try and somehow pick up the pieces of your shattered life. You spend a lot of time tucked under bridges, wrapped in your old sleeping bag, your belly rumbling with hunger. Eventually, your need to eat surpasses your pride, and you get a job flipping burgers at McDonald’s. With every twirl of your spatula, you shed a single, poignant, salty tear as you remember a time before this… a time when you were happy.

I’m so disappointed. I wrote this scene to try to open this screenplay I just started. I’ve been kicking this idea around for years, but I have no idea how to begin it, since there’s so much back story between the two main characters before the story starts. I thought this was a nice way to introduce it, but it’s completely out of character for the girl in the scene to be rational and thoughtful and polite, so it has to go.

I apologize for the lack of formatting. It got messed up when I copy pasted the text in here.

Ext. The beach -night

VLADIMIR is walking on the beach, next to the shadowy outline of the fishing pier. The sky is a deep, dark navy blue, studded with stars and partially obscured by wisps of clouds. The inky black ocean crashes violently in the background.Vladimir screams, a raw sound that tears through his throat.

VLAD

COME BACK! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! DON’T LEAVE ME!

He stops for a heaving breath, and breaks down into tears.

VLAD

(raspily, quietly)

I made a mistake. I’m sorry.

He sinks to his knees in the wet sand.

Int. A 24-hour diner- night

BRIDGITTE sits at the counter with a mug of coffee in front of her. In her hand is a DIAMOND RING. She plays with it, staring at it with an inscrutable expression. Her emotions aren’t readily apparent, but it is clear that whatever they are, she is not happy.

A TRUCKER sits down near her and places an inaudible order to the waitress. He is not smart, but he is kind, and empathetic. He notices Bridgitte, and sees that she is both beautiful and sad. She reminds him of his daughter. He watches her for a few more moments.

TRUCKER

That’s a pretty ring you have there, miss.

BRIDGITTE

(Absently)

Hmmm? Oh, thank you.

TRUCKER

I remember when my daughter got a ring like that. She was so happy her smile almost broke her face in two. I don’t think she’s stopped smiling since.

BRIDGITTE

(polite smile)

That’s really nice.

TRUCKER

That ring don’t seem to be making you that happy. You don’t want to get married to the fella who gave it to you?

BRIDGITTE

I’m already married to the fella. For the time being.

She lapses back into pensive silence. The trucker’s PIE and a POT OF COFFEE are placed in front of him.

TRUCKER

Thanks, ma’am.

He turns to Bridgitte.

TRUCKER

Would you like me to freshen your coffee, miss?

Bridgitte looks guarded, not sure if she will have to ward off the advances of this unpolished man or if he’s just being kind.

TRUCKER

I ain’t trying to be anything to you except to offer a friendly ear to hear your story, if you want to tell it.

Bridgitte slides her mug towards him on the counter.

BRIDGITTE

Thanks. But it’s not my story. I’m in it, but… I don’t think it’s about me.

I need to do more creative writing. I have all these ideas and snippets of screenplays and short stories that I want to work on but never get around to. Besides, now that I’m taking science classes and I work as a nanny, I’m not around creative types as often, so there is no one to review and critique what I’ve written. So, my plan here with this blog is to post things I’m working on, ideas I have that I might want to get to later, and things I have finished. Then, I can share it on facebook or whatever and hopefully people will read it and tell me what they think.

I’m going to the gym now, but my goal is to post something once a week, even if it’s crap.

If anyone wants to join me to start a writing group because you need to write more, too, let me know. I don’t know how the logistics would work, but I would love to try.